


Just a Fluke

by Keyshiano



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Brotherly Love, Cancer, Crying, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Time, Happy, Hospital Sex, Hospitalization, Jealous Derek, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Mood Swings, Multi, Sad, Sarcastic Stiles, Scott is not a werewolf, Secret Relationship, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sick Stiles Stilinski, Slash, Stiles Stilinski Has Cancer, Strangers to Lovers, Terminal Illnesses, Top Derek, except the Hales
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keyshiano/pseuds/Keyshiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski was diagnosed when he was fifteen, and has been in and out of hospitals since then. Cora Hale happens to get herself into something that ends up with Stiles and Derek Hale meeting each other at odd circumstances. They may fall in love somewhere down the road. Or down the hospital halls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stranger

Derek sighed and exited his sister’s assigned room after he was sure she was asleep. Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital was not a place he was unfamiliar with, seeing as how years before— about seven, but it still felt like yesterday— he was there constantly to assist with his uncle’s burn wounds from that infamous Hale fire. He was there after the fire, too. A man, the town’s sheriff, took him there and comforted him with kind words. He was only fifteen at the time, and he stayed focused by watching the sheriff’s son babble continuously, running back in forth around the hospital’s waiting room while a young nurse tried to keep him in place. He hasn’t seen the sheriff’s son in a long time.

As he shut the door to the room, he went to the front desk to brew himself some coffee, the machines there had more flavors than the ones in the cafeteria. Always choosing something extra strong and hot to be aware of whatever Cora needed, he pressed the proper buttons that function curtained flavors—extra, _extra_ espresso. Melissa McCall was there, operating the desk, because Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital never has enough workers to do one certain profession, one person always had two or three other jobs, and it looked like tonight was Melissa’s turn to man the station of the usual receptionist.

“Derek,” she greeted him with a smile and a hushed voice. She didn’t mind that Derek was using the front desk coffee machine. He deserved a break, an award for all that he’s been through. “How’s Cora feeling?”

Derek waited until the coffee was brewed and he’d drank about half of the cup in just a few gulps before answering. “She’s dealing. We both are.” With that, he turned around, just barely, because he was hit with a force that surprisingly made him halt. And accidentally spill his coffee, apparently. When he finally regained focus, he saw Melissa race from behind the desk and go to a patient in a wheelchair, asking him if he was alright and if anything hurt. Derek saw someone who he knew was her son, Scott McCall, pushing the wheelchair and also panicking, asking if the boy in the chair was okay.

“Honey, what hurts? Do you need to change out of your gown?” Melissa asked in a frantic tone, wiping down the boy’s hospital gown that was barely hanging on his shoulders.

“I. . .” Derek attempted to apologize, but his voice was quickly overpowered by the two helping the boy.

A few ragged breaths were heard before a frail voice was. “Everything hurts, all of the time. That coffee spill was a cakewalk. I was cold, anyway.” To Derek’s ears, he could tell the boy was struggling to talk, as he was whispering and his voice was raspy.

“Scott, take him to his room. . . Stiles, tell me if you need anything at all.” Melissa urged on.

Stiles.

The name sounded familiar to him and he realized he never got to apologize to the boy. _Stiles,_ he thought to himself.

“I’m really sorry about the coffee. . .” he started, and froze in the middle of his sentence when the. . .when Stiles finally looked up. He was extremely too pale, immediately letting Derek know that Stiles has been in this hospital for far too long. His head was shaved, almost bald, with some sparse pieces here and there. He had a nasal cannula inside his nose,  his lips where severely chapped, and he held an IV walker in one weak grip. _Cancer?_ His eyes, Derek noticed, were huge, but he could tell that they were large before his apparent ailment. Derek knew he’d seen Stiles’s face before, somewhere.

“Whatever,” was the low response he received. Scott gave him a strained look before he continued to wheel Stiles away from the scene and into the elevator. _If he’s going_ _upstairs, he’s definitely chronically ill_. The thought startled Derek, and he couldn’t reason out why.

“I’m sorry about that. I know it was an accident,” Melissa began to say tiredly, “Usually, I’d keep this confidential, but he’s been through three sessions of chemotherapy this week alone, and he’s in a lot of pain and discomfort, more so than usual. I’m only telling you this because he’s usually cheerful, one of our happiest patients. .” She trailed off, scratching at her chin.

Derek swallowed before asking, pretending to be nonchalant. “Is he. . . going to be alright?”

Melissa froze in her ministrations and sighed. “He’s a real fighter. He’s getting along.” A few seconds of silence passed and Derek stared awkwardly in his coffee cup. “Maybe he should tell you this himself. You used to hang out in the same room when. . you were younger. Do you remember the sheriff’s son?”

Derek’s eyes widened slowly in realization, and Melissa nodded, seeing his epiphany.

“Anyway, he’s in room 74, obviously upstairs. You should go say ‘hello.’” Melissa stated, and went back to her place behind the desk to help some visitors. He nodded, and began slowly to the elevator. “Derek,” Melissa spoke softly, “tomorrow.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was around seven at night, and visiting hours were over. Derek, of course, was spending the night in Cora’s room. Somehow, somewhere, she ingested some Wolfsbane. Derek spoke to Deaton about it, and he suggested that she go to a human hospital to rest, seeing as how the conditions of Derek’s loft weren’t going to provide her any comfort in healing. He watched as her chest fell up and down, going from gentle to ragged. The TV in the room was turned on to cartoons to help Cora sleep—background noise—and Derek used the sounds to distract himself. His mind couldn’t help but to drift back to Stiles and how wrecked and tired he looked. He made a promise to himself to go see him, whether it be peering in his room, or gaining the confidence to actually speak.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Scott woke with a start and winced when he sat up from the side of Stiles’s hospital bed. He’d been there to hold his hand, because Stiles had said yesterday was the worst he’s felt all week. His hand has still in Scott’s, frail and loosely-gripped. Scott sighed and kissed Stiles’s hand and prayed to whatever was out there that Stiles would get through the day without throwing up and getting nose bleeds. Without crying. Without whimpering that he wished his mom was here.

Scott was there when Stiles was diagnosed. Well, he was in the hallway pacing because _patient confidentiality._ But, he was there immediately after, when he heard the sheriff flip one of the office chairs. Stiles was fifteen when he was diagnosed with stage 2 thyroid cancer. Scott cried with him when he heard the news. Stiles is seventeen with stage 3 now, taking stage 4 chemo, and he’s been in and out of the several hospitals for surgeries and other various treatments. He got surgery last week to remove fluids spread throughout his body. This week, was his week to recover in chemo, in hopes to terminate most of the spreading.  Thankfully, yesterday was his last day of the therapy, and he would be monitored today to see if he could go home this weekend.

It wasn’t until three hours after Scott woke up that Stiles did, hands still linked together.

“Hey, buddy,” Scott said softly rubbing his hand up and down Stiles’s cold arm.

“Hey, Scotty.” Stiles smiled weakly, voice gravely. The room was full of whirring and beeping noises as Scott did his usual routine of rubbing Stiles’s skin to warmth. The lights were off in the room. The nurses complained that, that was a factor of Stiles’s temperature changes, but understood the need to have them turned off.

“Wanna brush your teeth?” Scott offered, and got a tall plastic cup and a disposable toothbrush with pre-applied paste. Stiles opened his mouth as best he could while Scott gently brushed for him. He took care of Stiles like this when he was feeling especially feeble. Stiles gathered the saliva in his mouth and spit in the cup, only missing by a little. It was eleven in the morning, and Stiles was committed to being on his best behavior so he could leave soon. Lydia Martin, one of their best friends, planned to dye Stiles’s chopped hair a crazy and bold color, blue or something, just for fun. Stiles couldn’t wait for that. He didn’t even ask his dad if it was okay, and he _always_ asked his dad for permission to do things nowadays. He had to, lest they be damaging to his health, because God forbid Stiles play on something fun and time-consuming like an exercise ball. Although the last time Stiles went over to Allison Argent’s house to play on her exercise ball, he fell and it took him several minutes to get his breathing pattern right, he wasn’t in any _real_ danger. He’s not afraid of yet another collapsed lung scare.

“Anything you want to watch on TV?” Scott asked, always the nurturer, and turned to ‘Friends’ when Stiles mouthed it. Soon, about fifteen minutes after Phoebe yelling at Chandler, a nurse came in to change Stiles’s IV bag.

“Hi, Stiles,” she whispered and smiled something sad at seeing him in the same position as when he went to sleep, “Do you think you can do solids today?” Scott looked at Stiles, lips tucked in and expression concerned. Nodding, the nurse, a woman named Braeden, exited and reentered the room with simple food: a mix of peas and carrots with seasoned crackers and water. “I snuck in the crackers from the cafeteria this time,” she announced proudly with a wink, and Stiles, slowly but surely, lifted his hand to his mouth to feign blowing a kiss. Nurse Braeden snorted and left the room with promises to be back within minutes. Before Scott started to reach out and hand feed Stiles, Stiles reached for the crackers and dipped the in the juices the vegetables soaked in. Scott smiled proudly. “Good job, man.” At that, Scott received an eye roll from Stiles and a fist bump, despite himself. While Stiles was eating, the sheriff showed up, and when Stiles finished eating, about half of what was on his tray, he was feeling queasy. Minutes later and Scott was rubbing his hand up and down Stiles’s spiny back while the sheriff got a bucket lest Stiles had to vomit.

Stiles didn’t vomit. In fact, the food stayed down all day and made him feel better than he had in days on the liquidated nutrients and vitamins forced into his veins. Solid food was definitely the way to go. The sheriff, John, stayed with the boys until it was time for the doctors to check Stiles’s vitals and declare whether it was OK for Stiles to be released for the weekend. Stiles nearly jumped for joy when the doctor said he could.

“Be careful today, bud,” John said and kissed Stiles’s head, helping him sit up, and then stand. He was wobbly on his feet, but regained balance soon enough. Stiles was engulfed in Scott’s jacket, one that was free of any scent of cologne or perfume from Allison, knowing how sensitive Stiles was to smells. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were dating,” John laughed.

“Dad, please, everyone knows Scott and Allison are soul mates,” Stiles joked, adjusting the jacket and pulling a beanie on his head, one he or Scott always carried around just in case Stiles was feeling self-conscious, or whatever. “I’ll be careful, though, Daddy-O. No exercise balls unless I have spotters around the full circumference.”

John scoffed and rubbed the boys’ shoulders. “Love you, boys,” he said, and left the room.

“Andale, Scott,” Stiles said, sitting in the wheelchair he was giving during exit.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Scott was wheeling a now smiling Stiles down the hall while Stiles was humming the theme song to ‘Friends’ when someone, tall from where Stiles was seated, stopped in front of them, looking awkward. Stiles has never seen someone so beautiful in the hospital and wondered how he missed him walking around. Must have been transferred to another hospital at the time.

“Um. I’m Derek—Hale. I was actually going to go to your- your room to apologize for spilling coffee on you yesterday. .” He trailed off, looking down, yet still confident. He was wearing a leather jacket, his hair was tousled from what looked like finger-combing, and he had stubble that was just at the peak of becoming a 5 o’ clock shadow. Stiles had no idea what he was talking about, but couldn’t help but stare with wide eyes.

“. . Stiles wasn’t really aware of anything last night, but we know it was an accident. It’s fine, though. We’re leaving now, so. .have a nice day.” Scott said, awkwardly. The hospital atmosphere always seemed like a cloudy day turned sunny whenever Stiles was down and then got uplifted, but this guy—Derek—was bothering him, somehow. He didn’t like the way he looked at his best friend, well, whenever he wasn’t staring holes into the ground. He quickly exited and said a ‘goodbye’ to his mom when she passed them.

“Whoa, Scott, slow down, you’re going to give me heart palpitations.” At that, Scott immediately slowed down and found the quickest exit to the parking lot. “Oh my gosh, dude, I was kidding.” Stiles sighed and put his elbow on the arm of the wheelchair, resembling an irritated, young child.

“I love you, Stiles, but never do that to me—ever.” Scott said, so serious that it was almost scary.

Stiles was having heart palpitations, though, but for a complete other reason. He was falling in love with some stranger—a visitor, no less. He buried his head in his hands and groaned when he looked back and Derek was looking, too.

 


	2. Stiles Dyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exams, exams, exams. That's all I gotsta say.

“Stiles Stilinksi, if you don’t stop wiggling, this dye is going to get in your eyes and all over my outfit!” Lydia warned as she applied the bright orange dye to Stiles’s head.

“But it’s so _cold_!” complained Stiles right back.

The group was at Lydia’s house, some in the living room, and others, like Allison and Erica, in the bathroom watching as Lydia layered the dye through Stiles’s hair. The bathroom was filled with fumes of bleach and artificial hair dye, along with the sounds of Stiles and Lydia going back and forth with each other. Stiles was situated over the bathtub to ensure that the dye could be washed easily if and when it dripped. Eventually, though, Stiles’s knees grew sore, and they had to work with what they had.

“Are you sure your father approved of this?” Lydia asked Stiles with accusing eyes. Stiles scoffed, but it turned into a quick coughing fit, startling Scott who was situated in the living room. Giving Scott a thumbs-up as cleared his throat, he gave Lydia a look. “Of course. I’d think the son of a sheriff would know to be honest and truthful,” he said smugly.

Stiles looked in the mirror and saw pale orange hair, not quite the color they were going for, but the session had to stop early. The orange brought out his bright, amber eyes and made his pale skin stand out even more. People would stare at him, no doubt knowing he was sick with his frail and shaky bones, but they wouldn’t say anything, thinking it was some spontaneous act of someone who’d be gone soon. Stiles got lost in thought, and he jumped slightly when Allison’s hands appeared on his shoulders. “Do you like it?” She asked, looking bright-eyed and hopeful. “I think it looks great!” Stiles smiled and nodded.

Isaac walked in, wide-eyed as he didn’t know what color Stiles was dying his hair, but no doubt supportive. “Looks great, dude,” he said. Alongside was Jackson, who, of course, was covering his nose from all the fumes, looking disgusted. “When do you get to wash that out?” He said, which earned an annoyed groan from the group. Stiles rolled his eyes, yet smiled.

“Whenever my dad and nurses see me and faint from shock, I guess.” And he walked out with a protective towel covered around his neck. No one said anything when they saw Stiles shiver and hug the towel tighter to him.

Stiles didn’t say anything when he heard Erica whisper, “Nice going, Jackass.”

* * *

 

By Sunday night, Stiles was admitted back into his hospital room because his breathing began to get thick and heavy, as if he were inhaling steam. Sheriff Stilinski didn’t want to take any chances with Stiles’s heart palpitations, so he quietly gathered a few of Stiles’s things that’d be sure to entertain him during his indefinite stay. He didn’t say anything about Stiles’s hair the day Scott and Lydia carried his son to the front porch, shivering and pale. He’d just nodded in thanks and politely shut the door in their faces. When he called Melissa to tell her in advanced that they’d be coming in, he could tell that she was trying her best to put on a happy voice and ignore the fact that Stiles wasn’t able to spend at least four days out of Intensive Care.

 

 

  
Stiles woke up on a bleary Monday morning with the attitude of an angry, small child. He hated being in the hospital and he hated cancer. He hated looking down and seeing the IV needle in his hand, and he hated the holter monitors attached to his abdomen. He hated feeling drugged and helpless, and he hated the fact that his dad was dealing with this for a second time. He hated that stupid, impulsive idea of dying his hair a color that was so distracting.

“If you hate it so much, why did you dye it?”

Stiles sucked in a breath and turned to see who the voice belonged to. He saw bright, green eyes that he didn’t recognize immediately. It came to him slowly when he felt the tale-tell signs of nervous attraction.

“W-why are you in my hospital room? You know this is a private room, right? Not that I know of any non-private hospital rooms...” Stiles trailed off.

“I was told by Nurse Melissa McCall to entertain you so you wouldn’t be so uptight.”

Stiles made a face, “You’re here to strip?!” It was then Derek’s turn to look baffled. He shook his head and held out two Gameboys and motioned for Stiles to grab one. Stiles stared ahead and didn’t take the offer. “OK… how about we watch some old shows...I brought a portable DVD player, too...” Derek trailed off and reached into the bag that Stiles noticed was there. “Do you like _Riflemen_? Maybe _Big Bang Theory_? If you like cartoons, I have _Looney Tunes..._ ”

 _“Why the hell would Melissa McCall allow this person inside of my room,”_ Stiles thought to himself as Derek Hale continued to pull out old shows and cartoons in DVD packs.  

“Stop,” Stiles held up a hand and tried not to look bashful from the way Derek stared at the needle. “What…what kind of games do you have?” Derek stared at Stiles for a few seconds before he regrouped and reached for a small, bulky bag that was filled with games.

Stiles looked at his options and realized that all of the games were super old and used. “Why do you have all of these for me?”

Derek looked down, blushing a little and Stiles had to clear his throat to cover up the whimper that threatened to escape his mouth.

“They’re actually my sister’s. She’s kind of stuck here, too.”

“For how long?” Stiles rebounded.

“Maybe two more days, or so.”

“Wow, so 'stuck',” Stiles reiterated with a scoff an eye roll.

* * *

 

Derek felt embarrassed from realizing what he said, without thought. Stiles just smiled, though.

 

“ _Poké_ _mon._.. _Red_. That’s what I want to play.” Derek smiled.

 

* * *

 

By mid-afternoon, Derek was gone, and Sheriff Stilinski was there, caressing what he could of Stiles’s hair. He didn’t ask where Stiles got the Gameboy, or the portable DVD player, and he didn’t ask why Stiles had been smiling for the rest of the day until he’d fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if there are any mistakes, please. Even the most minor mistakes.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me if I have any major typos. It's hard to read your own work and check for those things. Kudos and comments would make me have sweet dreams. And I'm here for constructive criticism. Like, for example you hate my comma splices? Because I freaking do! It's hard to stop. /cries. :)


End file.
